“Everything in its right place”

It took only a few days, a couple of days to be exact, for everything to be back the way it used. The phrase I hoped to avoid using is that everything is back to its right place.

I don’t where the feeling that I shouldn’t be alive comes from, but I’ve had it for as long as I remember. Even if it went away, I wouldn’t know how to live otherwise.

It amazes me how I can have the slightest amount of confidence. Maybe that is how confidence works: you are confident as long as you are certain. It doesn’t matter what you are certain of.

It gets annoying to realize the right response only after the window for it has passed. But it is nothing compared to the helplessness of thinking that it has always been out of my hands. The very core of my identity is flawed, and it has always been that way.

It feels more helpless to see that flaw in the eyes of others. When your mistakes are immediately forgiven, and when you are not expected to be any better. I sometimes wonder how many people who know me looked at me and thought to themselves: “I have so much to be grateful for” in the same way that statement is said when looking at terminally ill people.

It’s me against them, everyday. Even the closest people to me seem so distant at times. Like everything else that’s flawed in me, I notice my flaw but I cannot fix it. At times, I wish I wasn’t even able to tell when I’m doing something wrong. But I’m paranoid, and I can’t stop it.
Because I believe that the moment I stop being paranoid would be the moment I am most vulnerable for those who are plotting against me.

My mind is going away. I don’t know the medical term, but I know what I feel.

Everything good in my life I sought because I knew I had nothing else. It was one-dimensional; transcripts, awards, and any physical evidence I could find that I was good. Almost every time I am mentioned, the evidence is mentioned too. As if to balance out everything else about me. An average of two extremes.
Everything good in my life was the compensation I offered for my identity.

What I fear is that my mind will go before I have more evidence. Everything is in its right  ugly place now. But in a few years it might not be.

Three Words (3/3)

I looked in the mirror, and all the ungroomed hair that covered my head and face couldn’t hide who I was, and it couldn’t hide the resemblance to my two uncles.

I used to think that something went wrong somewhere, and it led me to this. But I’m starting to see that this man in front of me is exactly how the child I was could grow.

An average of two extremes, but even every commendable achievement was earned for the wrong reasons.
I was terrified of becoming like my uncle, of quitting everything I have and simply living to die.
Then I remembered what my grandfather said.
Yes, I may avoid my uncle’s life, but it is equally terrifying to live a difficult life only to provide an excuse. It is equally terrifying to punish myself for their evil genes.

As if I was born undeserving of life that the meaning of my life became to justify it.

As if the limit of my life’s meaning is to push myself as far away from the evil extreme, so that the likes of my grandfather can describe me as “OK.”

Grandfather, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want you to know that I have never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate you today.

Three Words (2/3)

“Why don’t you go inside and eat with others?” That’s what my uncle asked. He saw my habit of eating on the stairs outside because I wanted to be by myself.
Even in college, the many times I ate on the stairs of buildings.

“He’s always like that, even at home.” My father used to tell people, sometimes even those we meet for the first time. As if something was so visibly wrong that he had to explain.
I started writing only after I have read so much in middle school. When I hid everyday in the individual cubicles in the library.
At the hospital, where we woke up at 6 and went to bed at 6, I revisited my favorite hobby of reading.

The more I remember of my past, the more likely it seems. Things have a better explanation now.

Things like the girl whose shoulder I burned with a wire hanger trying to approach her when I was 10 years old (funny that we were visiting my grandparents at the time).
Things like molesting another student in elementary school when I didn’t even know much.
Things that were only tolerable because I was “gifted”. It was the reason I was allowed in society, the excuse for my life.

 

Today, my thick folder of transcripts and acknowledgments shares the room with many empty medication bottles. Nothing gives me more pride and more humiliation than seeing my name written as the recipient of praise and pity.

How sickening to live as an average of two extremes.

Three Words (1/3)

He died in a car, but not in a car accident, and he made amends soon before it. Not many people ask more about it.

His younger brother, the cool uncle that played video games with me, quit his job and lives with my grandmother. Every time we visit, he shows up with long ungroomed hair and yellow teeth. It doesn’t take more than 5 minutes of talking with him to know he isn’t completely sane.

Their father, my grandfather, has died a few years ago. I remembered something he said and it frightened me today.

We were three sitting, my grandfather, my father, and I. I was about 14-16 years old. They were talking for a while, then they stopped.

My grandfather stared at me for a moment, then he looked towards my father and said in a low voice: “the kid, his mind is not right.” My father looked at him but said nothing.

I fear that history tells me that there are two possible outcomes. Which of my uncles lives are less pitiful?